


Porn Advent

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, First Time, Multi, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetic Porn, Prostate Milking, Strap-Ons, Teenage Sherlock, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: A series of different porn ficlets for the advent time, i.e. December 1 to December 24, including the pairings John/Sherlock/Mycroft/Greg in any variation with John/Sherlock always involved.Can also be found under wssh-watson.tumblr.com/tagged/porn+advent





	1. femlock + strap-on

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter of the 24 days of my little porn advent!
> 
> Anon asked for "Femlock + strap-on"!

Sherlock’s hands clutch at John’s sides, spindly, long fingers twitching around the breadth of John’s hipbones. They’re sweaty; her palms would slide if she didn’t hold on as tightly as she does. It isn’t the only part of hers that’s wet. Fairly soaked, really.

Before her face, John’s chest is heaving. Her tits, large and heavy, bounce just slightly, slightly, with every little downward push of her pelvis. Sherlock—a part of her, anyway; an extension, perhaps—feels it, another relentless little hot stab up her cunt. It makes her breathless, at the same time that it pushes a whine up her throat, which sits there, high and needy. She gasps it in between John’s tits, blindly turns her head to pant open-mouthed against the side of John’s swaying, gorgeous tit.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. Her hands are in Sherlock’s hair, a cat kneading and kneading before digging its claws in and yanking: Sherlock’s head is pulled back, throat bared. “Feels so—fffff—fucking—good… Your prick in me while I’m—”

“—while you’re fucking me,” Sherlock finishes for John, voice hushed and low. It isn’t low as much as it’s thick: a bit congested, as if she’s overheated; thick, rumbling. She grasps John’s left breast, that malleable flesh; tightens her fingers in it, pushes, pulls, rubs her hot cheek against that hot soft skin; seeks out that puffy, swollen nipple of hers. She purses her mouth and sucks it in between her lips, sore red on sore red.

It’s wet: her mouth opening and the saliva on the insides of her lips around John’s tight horny-wrinkled peak—where she spreads it, slicks her damp tongue in hungry circles around that areola—and laps—and laps. There are obscene sucking sounds, the sshhhlick of her wet lips and tongue and teeth, all shiny glistening, turning that sore red a dark, bruised red. John makes a noise, another, and tugs tighter. It makes Sherlock’s clit pulse, and pulse, and pulse.

The wet mess isn’t just Sherlock’s mouth and John’s tit. It’s their cunts, too: greedy gaping holes opening around a pretty purple toy that connects them both. Sherlock is fucking John; John is fucking Sherlock. They’re fucking each other.

John’s cunt is the juicier of the two. It sucks, soaked, with smacking noises at the fake prick. It makes her gasp; makes her push Sherlock’s head harder against her chest, to have her nipple bitten by cheeky teeth. She bounces in Sherlock’s lap, bent awkwardly over her, tits swaying, slapping slightly. Her hips are made of needy, jerky twitches, hitching up and down again to fill the tight ache of her cunt with sweetness until her eyes are bright slits and she’s riding Sherlock harder, harder, head thrown back and lower lip caught between her teeth, yanking and yanking and yanking at Sherlock’s hair until her nipple is a throbbing mess, all pain and no pleasure. It makes her fuck herself harder.

Each stab down pushes the toy tighter up Sherlock’s cunt; she’s not as wet as John and they needed lube, but the breadth of the feeldoe is enough to stretch her just enough—until the burn turns warm, turns into little pricks of tight heat, and she slips her hand from John’s tit—which falls just a little, being so heavy; it makes the heat strings tighter—to finger her own clit, swollen and peaking out from beneath the stretched lips of her cunt—stretched so wide open around the toy—and she finds it between her damp pubic hair with the tips of her index- and middle finger, and she begins rubbing the roughness of the fingertips against that sweet little nub, and rubs—and John curses over her, grits out, “Jjjeeeeesus”—and rubs—and John bends, hips becoming heavier—and rubs, a bit faster—and John sinks down over her, pushes her into the mattress, back, back—and she rubs, faster still—

And the both of them convulse together, hips squashed together and hands holding weak-twitchy onto sweaty skin, faces blindly pushed towards one another, bouncing on the bed—fucking, and fucking, and fucking the little aftershocks into each other, until their clits have stopped throbbing, their cunts have stopped clenching. When their inner thighs have grown cool-damp with their juices smeared all over them, they’re gasping weakly and nose at each other’s faces until the shudders have subsided.


	2. varitions of johnlockstrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A variation of Johnlockstrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @isitandwonder , an anon, and @violetwylde asked for a variation of Johnlockstrade… I’m making this up as I go, so no idea where it’s gonna go. anyway here you are!

“Oooh, hmm, yeah…” Greg makes a series of pleased, deep noises. “Your sweet sweet hole…”

He watches said sweet hole open up around his prick: pink muscle sucking at him as he tilts his hips back, sliding himself out. He watches, slack-jawed, for just a moment how his cockhead keeps all of that lube-shiny, puffy hole pried open; he traces his sweaty palm over the lower curve of Sherlock’s arse and absently fingers that pretty hole–pushing his fingertip against it, prodding–and grunts when Sherlock makes a filthy noise further up. When his hole clenches, quivering against Greg’s finger, Greg gives an impulsive shove of his pelvis forward.

Sherlock gives a grunt: it’s a wet grunt. It’s also followed by an almost pained, breathless moan, and, letting his palms card up Sherlock’s rippling, gorgeous back, Greg glances up through his flickering lashes.

In an elegant, pale vision–offset only by the red flush on his back and the dark of his hair–Sherlock is stretched out on the bed before him. His hands are clenched around John’s calves, gripping tight and keeping John spread-legged like an eager whore before him to stuff more of John’s generous cock down his throat; he’s nearly choking himself on it. Greg’s thrust has shoved him up on the bed, and, knowing John–who likes fisting Sherlock’s hair, especially to push Sherlock down, stuff that cheeky mouth full–he’s opened his throat to cock. Greg can just feel the bump of John’s tight, wrinkly balls against the swell of his lower lip. He licks it, imagining his sweat much muskier than it is.

“Ffffuuuuck–Greg–God, you gotta feel how thick his throat is,” John gasps out, thickly, blinking up at Greg from over the bed. He’s ruined, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing shallowly. One hand comes down to Sherlock’s throat, feels the cup of his prick there, extending the sensitive skin. “–so fuckin’–full–of my cock–”

In pleased agreement, Sherlock dips his head down–and Christ would Greg kill for that vision: a sweaty lock over that forehead, flushed cheeks hollowed underneath their impossible arches, that lush mouth pursed in a greedy suck–and John just drops his head back. Greg closes his eyes, and, overcome, feels his cock slide in and out decadently of Sherlock’s arse to the sound of Sherlock gagging wetly around John’s cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is how it continues:
> 
> #john fucks sherlocks throat a while #until he bends down and fingers his own hole #while greg happily fucks away at sherlocks arse watching john opening himself up and sherlock lapping at his prick #until john is done #and lies back #and b e g s for sherlock to get that pretty prick up his greedy hole #so greg fuck shuffle walks sherlock up the bed #until they all bend awkwardly so greg fucks sherlock while sherlock fucks john #and sherlock just keeps making pained and guttural noises into johns neck #and meanwhile greg comes up sherlocks arse cos hes been there for so long #and sherlock is so hyped up he cant yet come and fucks john wirhout abandon #and greg helps him through it #he comes up that used hole #drops down to his elbows #and eats himself out of sherlocks arse while fingerfucking him #and sherlock just s p i l l s into john #youre welcome
> 
> i might continue this still, i've enjoyed writing this a LOT


	3. [?]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missed the third but will catch up on it soon!

[placeholder]


	4. Femlock the 2nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for Femlock and the phrases "yeah, bury your face in it" and "you're so fucking hot" (surprised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an especially wonderful anon asked for Femlock/Femjohn using two specific phrases!

Sherlock isn’t always very wet: when she’s in the rare mood to be fucked, John has to make do with a lot of lube.

When John applies her tongue, she can’t stop leaking.

Her thighs are spasming periodically around John’s head, trying to squeeze, push away, hold closer. She’s writhing around on the bed with her head thrown back, hips shuddering in aborted circles–grinding the sweet edge of her clit against the tip of John’s tongue, over and over–a tension-strung bow with her back arched, one hand clenched white-knuckled in the pillow by her head (biting down on her wrist), the other tugging, pushing, yanking at John’s hair.

“Oh my God,” John, pulling back slightly, grunts out against her cunt, the heavy breath making Sherlock’s clit pulse, “you’re so _fucking_ hot…”

She sounds surprised; like she hadn’t expected it. She adores going down on Sherlock, lapping and lapping away at her cunt until Sherlock is wailing, but something about tonight surprises her: Sherlock’s musk is cloying and hot in her nostrils, her juice a bit tangier, a bit thicker. It makes her lean into the cunt before her harder, rubbing the ridge of her teeth carefully against Sherlock’s clit and poking her tongue tip into the bottom of Sherlock’s cunt in persistent, hungry stabs, swallowing down what wetness she can get.

John is making such wet, lewd noises between her thighs, pushing her head down quicker, faster–and Sherlock can’t even push her down harder, she’s doing all of it by herself–and her breath is coming hard and dirty,  and the lust in Sherlock’s gut keeps c l e n c h i n g–that when the next time John lets out a groaned “Mmmhhhmmm,” and she feels it vibrate against her clit among all the smacking and munching noises—

She says, “Haven’t had–haven’t had the c-chance to shower–since yesterday,” breathily, and with her fingers digging further into John’s scalp she pulls herself up to her elbows to watch with wide, glazed eyes and John just moans at that–as John bends her head and sticks her nose right into the wet-matted curls at the top of Sherlock’s cunt and inhales—as she holds, tight and cramped, onto the soft flesh of Sherlock’s upper inner thigh to keep her open and spread for her face–and when John’s begins sucking at her pubic hair, heaving in another heavy through her nose from Sherlock’s drenched cunt and sweaty thighs—Sherlock stutters out, “E-enhanced scent–because u-unwashed–” and John hisses out, “Yes,” vicious and hungry, fairly rubbing her nose and lips against all of Sherlock–sucking, inhaling, kissing, lapping, worshipping–Sherlock’s brain short-circuits, and, weak elbows giving in, she drops back onto her back and groans at the ceiling, “Fuck, yes, yes—stick your face down there, bury–bury it–in my cunt–”, John does it as though it’s the only she thing she wants, giving a horny little chuckle and she sticks her tongue up Sherlock’s cunt and blissfully keeps eating her out.


	5. voyerusim & mystrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have your sexual awakening when you watch your brother fucking the gardener’s son.
> 
> It’s something terrifying and violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violetwylde’s frankly BRILLIANT advent request: “How about voyeurism. Like Sherlock has a shameful sexual awakening when he watches Mycroft fuck the gardener’s son.” HOO BOY FUCK YES.

At first, it’s the paleness.

You know the whiteness of your forearms and neck from bending over in the garden and looking for particular specimens to study; you feel the sun on the back of your neck and you see the way it tans your forearms, and the fine line when you pull your shirt down, after.

The paleness of… thighs… however, is something that shocks you.

It’s something intimate: it’s what you see when you’re taking a piss and have your trousers pulled down in the loo when you’re all alone, or when you wake up in the early hours of the morning and change from your pyjamas into your trousers; it’s what you feel, late at night, exhausted after a day of crawling around on your knees in the nearby woods to stare at certain types of moss and mushrooms, when you allow your fingertips to trail over the backs of your thighs—such soft, surprisingly sensitive skin (—sensitive only for a few months, now, but you don’t think of this) that thrills you with delicate, tiny goosebumps.

One night, you’d stood in the moonlight that fell in through your windows, and you’d watched them: those tiny pinpricks of chilly, titillating pleasure: little innumerous craters of them all over your skin. The white of your thighs had felt so vulnerable under your fingertips. It had belonged only to you.

That is the impression you carry with you: vulnerable thighs, touched inadvertently in the moonlight of a window. You don’t read romance novels even if Daddy hoards them, but you know the stereotypical notions of romance, of… sex.

It shocks you wholly, entirely, to see this in daylight.

At first, it’s the paleness. There’s so much of it: broad hands on a generous sliver of a pale back that glistens, sweaty, under the hot afternoon sun. You’ve seen bare backs only before when someone was hard at work, or swimming in a nearby lake, or your own, under the shower, of course. This is bold: a shirt rucked up, exposing a sweat-shiny, slightly muscled back. From your spot behind the tree, you can see the outlines of broad shoulders and strong arms—and a slim waist—well enough. You recognise the boy—man?—it belongs to: it’s Lestrade Jr., something with G, three years older than you, your family’s apprentice gardener, put charitably.

He’s all over Mycroft. You’d recognise those spindly, thin fingers everywhere. They’re clutching at that sweaty back, grasping greedily, roaming all over it.

It’s a beautiful back.

The thought makes you freeze: it’s nonsensical. It’s just _anatomy_.

It’s beautiful anatomy.

Your heart begins pounding an awful, frenzied rhythm. You bring your fingers to the soft spot below your jaw, absently take note of how your pulse goes at a mad speed. You watch, mouth open and wet, and those bodies move against one another. Your brother’s hand is buried in G’s dark hair, tugging, yanking, like G is doing him some pain. Your brother makes noises as though he is in pain. It thrills something in your gut, a hot, leaden thing that makes you swallow.

You press closer to the tree. It hides you well. The bark is rough against your body.

G is hectic, as if he wants to get it over with; he’s fast and unrestrained. His hands run all over your brother too, clutching at his hips, pushing his head back. He bends his face and pushes it into your brother’s neck—your brother’s shirt is pushed aside, terribly creased; Mommy will be cross with him, later—and stays there, moving his head back and forth in tiny little motions. They do this for some while. You watch, entire body hot despite the fact that the canopy above you is hiding you from the sun. Your body is pulsing in long, slow waves of warmth, a warmth that grows increasingly more intense the longer you watch. You blink, fast. There is sweat on your upper lip, on the back of your neck, the small of your back.

You dig your fingernails into the bark of the tree. It hurts. You don’t notice. It’s a detached sort of pain.

Suddenly, G pushes himself off, and clutching at your brother he turns the both of them around; you quickly stifle the high noise that escapes you at the picture behind the palm of your free hand. The picture is G’s broader, stocky form standing a little hunched over before your tall, slim brother—the sight of such bodily contrasts does something you can’t understand. Your brother’s thin, long fingers on his broad back. His red, cigarette-smoking mouth on your brother’s pale neck.

His blunt, calloused hands pulling down your brother’s bespoke trousers and pants and stroking down the pale expanse of your brother’s lean legs. His hands aren’t as big as your brothers, but they’re worker’s hands: tanned, slightly brown on white; they look crude. He’s smaller than your brother, but this way it looks as though he’s engulfing him, holding his thighs apart, kneeling between them with his head right at your brother’s groin.

The waves of warmth turn into a tectonic disaster: your body is made of earth plates, the ones you read about; the ones that move, and when they move enough, they forge new frontiers, new shapes. You can’t explain entirely what is happening to you, but this is all you think about as you keep watching his head dip—and dip—and stay—and your brother’s head thrown back, grunting with pain—and then his head pulling back—and a deep gasp for breath you echo, somewhere inside your chest—as this happens, and you watch it, all that pale white (sensitive moonlight) thighskin and back exposed, all those fingers and red lips and sweat, you think of shifting earth plates: you think you’re cracking apart with a gentle sort of violence that is all relentless, hot gravity like molten lava spilling from the cracks—you’re cracking apart like this, a shove and a thrust and a scratch because the bark is rough, so rough against the front of your trousers—your body forming new shapes, new shapes you’re grinding out, gouging out against the tree before you—that when your brother makes a last, shaky gasp, calling out, “Greg,” weakly, like his pain just tripled, and when G—Greg—moves back and bites down his uneven teeth onto all that moonlight goosebump vulnerable thighskin of your brother—

you shake apart: the heat spills. It spills right over you, down your own vulnerable, goosebump skin. You shake apart, the wet front of your trousers—chafed within—throbbing ridiculously. You are sweaty, all over, as if you’d been between them. Your fringe is plastered to your forehead; your cheek is stuck against the bark, hot and flushed.

You have raked your fingernails bloody against the bark.

It’s true what they say about growing up, you think, dimly, as you settle into this new shape of your body. It comes with blood.

 


	6. Johnlock prostate massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First time. Before getting into a relationship with John, Sherlock had masturbated sometimes, but his penis isn’t really sensitive. Pleasant, but not explosive like everyone describes how sex should be, so he’s afraid John will think he’s a unsatisfactory partner. That’s before John teaches him the joy of a prostate massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for the following pretty thing… “Johnlock - Virgin!Sherlock - First time. Before getting into a relationship with John, Sherlock had masturbated sometimes, but his penis isn’t really sensitive. Pleasant, but not explosive like everyone describes how sex should be, so he’s afraid John will think he’s a unsatisfactory partner. That’s before John teaches him the joy of a prostate massage.” there you go. sorry it got quite long and is a tad unporny…

It isn’t technically the first time Sherlock engages in sexual behaviour.

He experienced, of course; his hands on other people, then theirs, in turn, on him. It never yielded any of the expected results, and if Sherlock had not found his eye drawn to the occasional broad shoulder or muscled backside, he would have categorised himself as asexual. As it stands, he’s not.

He masturbates, of course; it’s tedious, but it gets, colloquially spoken, some of the steam out. His body lets him know when he has to indulge in that particular bland activity, and he gets it over with. Perfunctorily; and with a sigh not of pleasure but of resigned annoyance.

John reads it on him, of course, as he reads other things that escape Sherlock finely tuned mind. He reads Sherlock’s attitude of reluctant sexuality in his hesitant, halting kisses; he reads Sherlock’s almost apathetic disinterest in having his erection touched in their first time.

The former, John has done away a while ago, snogging Sherlock into the couch and hiding his smirk against Sherlock’s swollen lips as Sherlock just sucked, mindlessly, on his tongue with his fingers squeezing John’s arse spasmodically. Te latter turns out to be not the same mystery for John as it has been, always, for Sherlock.

Sherlock knows this is technically what general consensus deems his first time: genital contact, orgasms expected, not just snogging and heavy petting. He spent the first ten minutes getting his knees sore rubbing his nose over John’s fragrant pubic hair with that beautiful, big prick down his throat, not wanting to come up. John, awfully perceptive even in moments of petting Sherlock’s hair and letting out breathy invocations of his name, eventually pulled him up. Pulled him up and kissed his protests away in the same movement that he pushed down Sherlock’s boxers.

This is where Sherlock is, now; on his back, legs spread with John between them, quivering fingers carding relentlessly through John’s hair, cupping his skull, as John attempts to kiss some quietude into him. It works, a little. The trembling recedes to only Sherlock’s fingers.

“You okay?” John murmurs in a whisper, wet lips at Sherlock’s heated earlobe. “Hmm?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock gasps. His fingers clench hard in John’s hair, keeping John’s face hidden in his neck. He doesn’t want John to come up, doesn’t want John to see his face.

He doesn’t want John to move down and discover what a disappointment he’s invited into bed with him.

John, however, pulls back and gazes down at Sherlock with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he says in a hushed voice, and Sherlock swallows. There is nothing to do but to draw John down to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

When John pulls back another time, breathing heavily but controlled against Sherlock’s left cheek, cupping the other in his warm palm, he asks, “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock stares up at him, entranced. Thoughts of statistics and being a disappointment become very quiet, with John’s eyes on him; the answer is yes. Yes, of course.

He lets John know in an aborted little nod—and John smiles, a little stupidly, tracing his chins with his fingertips—before giving him a last, oddly chaste kiss, and moving down Sherlock’s body.

Involuntarily, Sherlock’s eyes close. His gut clenches.

Before John’s eyes, his penis softens. John doesn’t acknowledge this in any way, and his unaroused penis goes unaddressed. Instead, John kisses a wet trail down his collarbones, teases his tongue in slow circles around Sherlock’s nipples, one by one; he catches Sherlock’s right hand in a gentle hold, twining their fingers together and squeezing slightly as he dips the very tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s navel.

Below him, Sherlock’s hips jerk; Sherlock squeezes his hand, involuntarily, suddenly. A grin unfurls on John’s face at the suppressed huff of laughter, and he presses his cheek to that taut belly to feel it jump against him.

“Ticklish, mmhh,” he mutters, eyes closed, rubbing his face against Sherlock’s skin.

“Not,” Sherlock grunts out, but he caves obediently when John drags his fingernails down his left side to his hip.

Their conversation dies as John moves his face further down, rubbing his cheek against the semi-hard penis lying heavily in the bend of Sherlock’s upper thigh. He says, “I don’t mind,” quietly, with eyes closed. His thumb traces little circles over Sherlock’s palm. “No expectations. I just want to feel you a bit.”

Taking a little deep breath and catching John’s genuineness in a quick upward glance of those soft, beloved eyes, Sherlock nods and closes his eyes.

The rest is a bit of a blur: John spends endless moments just inhaling him, nosetip tickling along Sherlock’s hip bones, mouth pressing soft, wet and mostly ineffective kisses to his balls, the fingers of his free hand slowly tilting Sherlock’s thighs open, spreading them apart. John’s slow exploration of him—reverence, really; it almost hurts to look at his face—and his thumb moving in slow circles over the back of Sherlock’s hand have made Sherlock’s penis take note. It fattens prettily before John’s face, filling out in length and girth until the head of it lies purple-exposed over Sherlock’s belly.

John doesn’t touch it once.

Instead, he gently pries apart Sherlock’s thighs further. A last squeeze to Sherlock’s hand and he extricates it from his hold. He uses both hands to cup the back of Sherlock’s thighs, pressing them apart and open, and eases a pillow underneath the small of Sherlock’s back.

He pushes his face between Sherlock’s arse cheeks and eats him out.

When they’d started doing this, John’s fingers had accidentally skimmed over the small of Sherlock’s back, at night on the couch watching telly, Sherlock lying atop of him and snoring; when John had traced his fingertips over that spot, Sherlock had jerked up, his hips jumping, heart suddenly speeding up—his whole lower body pulsing.

John uses that knowledge ruthlessly now.

He tongues Sherlock’s hole until it’s loose and pliant; until it gapes, open, when John draws his tongue back. Sherlock bites the flesh of his upper arm and tries not to shove his lower body too hard into John’s face. His pelvis tickles, has grown warm. His muscles are made of bow strings, drawing tighter, tighter. There is a hum of music in his body Sherlock feels just around the edges of his awareness.

John plays him superbly when he murmurs, “Here,” and gives Sherlock his first finger, carefully wet and dangerously skilled; the alien feeling of it tips Sherlock’s mouth open against his upper arm, until he breathes hard against it, eyes wide open.

He stretches around John’s finger. He is open; his muscles are forced apart; he accommodates a part of John.

John, inside him.

The first music comes in a low, needy whine; John listens to it, feeling like he adores Sherlock so much he might die with it. He begins tugging the strings in Sherlock’s body when one finger becomes two; when he shifts his fingers, precise and and gentle and relentless; when his fingertips caress, and caress, and caress the tender nub of Sherlock’s prostate until Sherlock has thrown his head back and is tilting his hips up in helpless needy shoves, thrusting his cock—so hard it sticks up straight from his stomach—against nothing.

Fuck this, he thinks, deliriously, mouth open in a wordless prayer, kneading the pillow like a cat in heat. Fuck his cock. He doesn’t need his fucking cock. He’s got John’s hands on him.

Blindly, he puts the flat of his feet on the mattress and his elbows as well; equally as blindly, he shoves forward. John makes a surprised, satisfied noise, groaning out, “Christ, Sherlock,” as Sherlock begins pushing all his weight forward onto John’s fingers.

It starts uneven, without rhythm; Sherlock hasn’t fucked himself on anything before. It’s a tragedy he hasn’t, he thinks, wildly, because the harder he shoves his hips down the more often, the harder he grinds John’s fingertips against his prostate—the more generous is the cup of John’s fingers surrounding his prostate, a gentle, insistent pressure like an itch that grows hotter, that makes the bow strings inside him tighten until they’ll either be so bent out of shape they’ll cease working or they’ll just snap.

Wet gasps, a shove; Sherlock loses himself in it. Distantly, he realises the bed is shaking with the force of his hips rocking; there is a sound like flesh slapping on flesh, only a very wet sound. When there is something thumping rhythmically against his belly, Sherlock realises it’s his cock, slapping and slapping against his stomach. He hardly feels it. The centre of his heat is up his arse, a delicious sweet pain that makes his eyes tear up, that makes him snap his hips harder, faster, harder, until John is biting at his knee and muttering furiously, “Yes, come on, yes, yes, fuck yourself, Sherlock, yes,” fucking his fingers frantically into Sherlock with the rhythm of Sherlock’s wild, shivering hips.

Body in an upward arc, back curved up from the bed, Sherlock comes. He gasps wide-eyed up at the ceiling, can’t even swallow as the first spurts start shooting out from his cock, splashing on his chest, his chin, his stomach; John holds his own fingers still while Sherlocks hips twist in jerky little shudders down onto them, the whole of his pelvis wracked in little quivers. Hoarsely, Sherlock whispers, “J-John!” and keeps his body still two, three seconds in that impossible arc, before he collapses back against the bed, sweaty and so, so fucking spent.

He comes back to John’s hurried, damp kisses on his cheek, his eyelids. He turns his face blindly to John’s and rubs their noises together, a beatific, slightly confused grin on his face. “Hi,” he whispers, feeling stupid and giddy and entirely relaxed. He’s a mess of sweat and come and he couldn’t be happier. With a trembling hand he holds John’s head close to him.

“Hey,” John says back, a little amused and very much breathless. He clears his throat. “Some virgin you are,” he mutters, catching Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock’s grin grows wider until it makes him look demented.


End file.
